Stradivarius
by Juliette Madigan
Summary: John gets creative about getting Sherlock to take cases-hilarity ensues. And then, all too quickly, so does reality. Non-slash, even if you read upside down and backwards. Later chapters may tend towards a T rating. Read and review, please!
1. Morning Routine

**Disclaimer: I am not the BBC, affiliated with the BBC, affiliated with or the ghost/long lost great-granddaughter of Arthur Conan Doyle, or Mark Gattis or Steven Moffat, and sad as I am about these facts, they won't change.**

**I am not affiliated with Fox (thank God), or David Shore (unfortunately).**

**Non-Slash, but bromance abounds. This first chapter is based loosely on that House episode…you know the one. With the guitar.**

When I woke up yesterday morning my flat-mate, Sherlock Holmes, was tearing apart the bookshelf.

This wasn't too unusual in itself; he's done far stranger things. Finding severed fingers in the mayonnaise jar was almost routine. As long as he confined his mess to the kitchen I was usually satisfied. I ducked to avoid an airborne copy of the London A-Z flung unceremoniously in my direction.

"Are you just going to stand there or do you feel like making yourself useful?" he demanded, not even turning around. Most of the contents of one bookshelf were stacked precariously on either side of him. There was a skull (human) balanced on top of one pile, to keep him from accidentally adding to the towering mess of papers and books.

"You know, while I'm all for spring cleaning-" I sidestepped the Encyclopedia Britannica- "Isn't this a little early?"

"Someone's taken my Strad."

"Your-your what, sorry?"

"Strad," he said impatiently. "Stradivarius. My twenty thousand pounds sterling violin."

"And you think it's hiding in the bookshelf?"

"I've already searched the rest of the flat." He gestured around hopelessly.

"Why do you think it's stolen?"

"They left a note on the front door. Cut from _newspaper_ _headlines_." He said _newspaper_ _headlines_ like it was a personal insult, punctuating it with another thrown book.

"This is mine!" I protested indignantly, catching it and inspecting it carefully for damage.

"So?"

"So it's a rare edition of _The Grapes of Wrath_, and I'd like to keep it that way, thank you very much!"

"Americans," he sniffed disdainfully. "You can toss it, for all I care."

"I assume you haven't read it."

"Why would I waste my time on such rubbish?"

"It's a classic."

"Outdated and boring, you mean."

"No, I mean still appreciated even though it's so old, because it's actually that good. What, you quote _Hamlet_ at least once a week, right?"

He waved a hand, as if to say that was of little consequence. "'Give thy thoughts no tongue.' Act one, scene three. But back to the note. Today's Daily Mail, pages A2, B2, D1, and B1."

"How could you-?"

"The words were cut whole in some places, plus I recognized the typeset,

obviously. No inherently recognizable stationary, the pen was a cheap ballpoint that could have come from any corner shop, no identifiable marks, fingerprints, the like…Here."

Sherlock handed me the note. "Hmm." I cleared my throat. "'I have your violin. Do not attempt to contact the police. You are being watched. Wait for further instructions.' Doesn't this seem a tad…I don't know, childish? Like a prank? You might be overreacting…"

"I think I reacted exactly the right amount."

"Oh?"

"Oh, yes. The criminal always returns to the scene of the crime." His eyes glittered dangerously.

"Mrs. Hudson did _not _take your violin."

"Oh, don't play dumb, John, it doesn't suit you." He strode forward and took my hand roughly. He had a grip like a vise for someone so ridiculously thin. "This is resin under your fingernails."

"I-don't-no, of course not. I mean, I don't even know what that…is."

"You're a _terrible_ liar. I _want_," he snarled, emphasizing the word with a painful tightening of his grip. "My Stradivarius back."

"I'm not lying!"

"Where've you hidden it?"

"I didn't touch your violin."

"Am I interrupting something?"

We turned around. Mrs. Hudson was standing in the doorway holding a tray. "I thought you two might like a spot of breakfast, but…"

"No," I said quickly. "I mean…of course we'd like breakfast, thank you, but, uh-"

"He stole my Stradivarius," seethed Sherlock, waving my hand around like it was a crucial piece of evidence in some courtroom drama. "It's all over his fingers!"

"What is?"

"The resin, it's something you put on the bow to make it-you brought us breakfast?"

"Is that scrambled eggs?" I asked, standing on tiptoe to try and see over him- a lost cause.

"Don't change the subject!" he snapped, dropping my hand. "What do you want?"

"Well," I said coyly, "I'm _flattered_ that you would think me so clever as to actually attempt to steal your most prized possession, but I honestly can't think why anyone would want to do that."

He gave me a look that has made grown men run from the room, made even more intimidating by the fact that he normally towered over them, as he was trying to do to me. I wasn't impressed.

"Unless it's to make you take the case Lestrade has been badgering you-and me-about since last Tuesday? Just a guess…"

"Don't guess. It's a bad habit."

I gave a loud, fake cough. "Nicotine patch."

"Shut up!"

Mrs. Hudson smiled and set the tray down on a side table. "I'll leave you to it, then."

"Thanks so much."

She looked around at the mess Sherlock had made and simpered. "I try. John, dear, do finish your coffee this time."

"If Sherlock will let me, sure." I sipped it contemplatively. Just enough sugar, as usual. "Mrs. Hudson, you're a saint." I turned to the irate detective, who was now looking at me like he was contemplating causing me serious bodily harm if I didn't confess. "You know, I thought I saw some of a chin rest poking out from under that sofa…"

He all but upturned it in his haste to find the violin, swearing under his breath when he found nothing there.

"Or maybe I realized it would be a smart idea to, you know, wait until you've taken the case."

It wasn't everyday that one finds the great Sherlock Holmes at a loss for words. I took the opportunity to toss him his coat. He shrugged it on, mouth half open like he had an acerbic comment coming, he just didn't know where it had went.

"Are you in awe of my tactical brilliance?"

"Oh, please." He lowered his voice theatrically, narrowing his steely eyes in mock-seriousness. "You do realize, _Doctor_ _Watson_…_this means war_." The detective strode out of the room before I could think of a reply.

I rolled my eyes and set my unfinished coffee on a side table, then whipped out my phone to send a text, almost tripping over _The Devil's Arithmetic_. "I'm not cleaning this up!" I called after him.

_Lestrade-Be there in ten minutes. Don't wait up._

_-JW_

**More to come!**


	2. Phineas Gage

"Forty five, perfectly healthy, all of the tags on his clothing removed. Found dead at five in the morning near Hyde Park with a bullet through his head from a L96 sniper rifle, almost probably from the building across the street. And, before you ask," said Lestrade, cutting off the detective (oh, sorry, CONSULTING detective), "he was completely bomb-vest free."

"Good," I said, finishing a text and sending it. I turned my full attention to the DI. Sherlock was flipping through the file with an utterly bored expression on his face.

"Well?" said Lestrade, looking hopeful.

"The rifle is certainly…unusual."

"Fairly screams Moriarty, no?" I put in.

A flash of apprehension crossed Sherlock's face. Lestrade looked briefly uneasy. Even the mention of the name made me feel a little nervous myself.

"Okay," I said quickly, "Maybe, maybe not, but the point is that this was obviously a hit. Right? I mean…" I took a photo from the file. "Bloke was wearing a suit."

"Nice. Dolce & Gabbana," murmured Sherlock.

"Rich people don't go missing for very long," I said.

"So…" Lestrade looked tired; more so than usual, I mean. He had dark circles under his eyes.

We looked at Sherlock. He hadn't looked up from the file the entire time.

"How many pockets?" he said abruptly, still not looking up.

"I-what?"

"This says he was wearing a coat. How many pockets?"

"It says in the report," replied the DI impatiently.

"This says there were four, containing a pocket knife, a few scraps of paper, and some loose change."

"I know what the report says."

"Did you write it?" He had put down the file and was now playing with my mobile. I snatched it back.

"No…Look, is this going anywhere?"

"How many pockets?"

"Five." Lestrade stopped, mystified. "And..."

"And you didn't check them because you continue to put more faith in…" He checked the label. "…Donovan than yourself. Typical. There's a reason they're your subordinates, Lestrade."

"There is a reason I haven't fired them, yes."

"I don't see it."

"They're competent."

"Competent doesn't cut it. Anderson's _competent_, but if your family knows where to put their money…"

"I do not take bribes," said Lestrade quietly. I stepped on Sherlock's foot discreetly.

"Ow-I wasn't suggesting you took bribes," he said, throwing me a dirty look, "but those above you…"

"Well," I said, rising from my seat, "this shows no sign of ending soon. I have to get to the clinic-I've got a patient whose ALT just got back."

"Not good?"

"Lead poisoning."

"Ah. I'll call you if I need anything." Lestrade mouthed _help me_ desperately. I smiled. _You'll be fine._ If everything went according to plan, he wouldn't have to deal with Sherlock for afew hours, at the least.

"Right." I strode out of the room, then ducked around the corner. Right on cue, Sherlock's phone beeped.

"What?" I heard Lestrade say, his gravelly voice muffled slightly by the glass windowpanes. He had drawn the blinds; it was an unusually sunny day for the dead of winter. They couldn't see me.

"Got a text," said Sherlock, his baritone muffled as well. "From John. It says…"

"Phineas Gage? What the hell does that mean-hey, where are you going? We're not done yet!"

"He _wouldn't_," growled Sherlock, and he strode out of the office, muttering obscenities under his breath.

I hid a smile, waited until I was sure he was gone, and then went outside, shielding my eyes from the blinding glare of the snow, because I really did have a patient to see. I was quite impressed he grasped the reference so quickly. But of course Sherlock Holmes would know about the most famous case study in history. The only question had been whether he would understand what I was getting at.

From some of the things he said (I can't put them in print, unfortunately, but they were very colorful), he had. In the cab, I took out my mobile to return Sarah's call from earlier. It wouldn't make the call. I swore under my breath.

He had taken my SIM card.

Well, I thought, smiling in spite of myself, he would get his comeuppance soon enough.


	3. Findings

Sherlock pounded up the stairs. Mrs. Hudson was waiting at the top of them, arms full of groceries and a disapproving expression on her face. "John was just here. He said you'd pay for the groceries."

He opted to push past her with a muttered explanation that didn't sound in the least helpful, so she shook her head, put them down, and was about to start down the stairs when there was a resounding crash from behind her. She turned around.

Sherlock was lying on the floor, drenched in something bright red and sticky that looked horrifyingly like…

"Cranberry juice," he panted, scrambling to get up. "Careful, careful-there's a trip wire."

She grabbed him by the arm and hauled him up. "So _that's_ what he was doing."

Sherlock groaned. "I just got this dry-cleaned! Where…what's…"

The skull was grinning at him from atop the coffee table, an enormous nail the size of a railroad spike through its head and down through its eye. Sherlock picked it up wonderingly.

"He even got it through the frontal lobe…I mean, it obviously hasn't got a frontal lobe, but if it still did…well." He smiled in spite of himself, shook his head. His violin case was on the floor next to it, Stradivarius safely replaced inside it. There was also a stack of fivers on it, with a post-it attached. He recognized John's untidy scrawl.

_For dry cleaning. Rest is for groceries. You're welcome._

_-John_

He peeled off a few from the top and waved Mrs. Hudson off. Sherlock looked around the flat, which, apart from the lake of red near the door, looked positively pristine. Euch.

All right. Fine. Two could play at this game. But first…

He called Lestrade on his miraculously still functioning Blackberry, shivering slightly as he waited for him to pick up. The cranberry juice had been _cold. _That seemed a tad unnecessary.

"Hey. Find anything?"

"Absolutely, thanks for helping. Where have you _been_?"

"Irrelevant. Well?"

There was a rush of static as Lestrade gave a long-suffering sigh. "There was a data stick. The files were password protected. We've got someone on it. And…there was something else."

"Did someone come forward about their missing uncle Barry?"

"No, it…listen, could you and Dr. Watson be here later? Say around five?"

"Fine." He hung up.

What was going on?

I smiled at the thin, tired face of the six year old girl in the bed. She was getting ready for what would hopefully be her last round of chemo this week.

"Dr. Watson," she said quietly. "Hi."

I swallowed a yawn. "Hey, Angie. How's school?"

"Oh, usual. Tommy Wilkers tried to eat glue again."

I chuckled. "Really? I can't imagine that went over well with your teacher."

"Oh, no. He got in trouble. Really big trouble. He was alright, though, even though he swallowed some."

"That's good." I fought back another yawn as I flipped through her file. "We're starting you on Adrucil today, and then we'll see how it goes."

"Okay." She squinted up at me with a suddenly shrewd, calculating expression. "You look really tired."

"Yeah, I haven't really been able to get much sleep these days…"

"Why not?"

My pager beeped. _This._

"Sorry, Angie, I'll just be a minute."

Then, suddenly, the EKG started going crazy, and she slumped into unconsciousness.

"We need a crash trolley over here!" I yelled. A nurse rushed over, wheeling the small red trolley around a bed with deadly precision. The nurse ripped through the front of Angie's hospital gown and attached the electrodes, while I glanced over at the EKG. My heart sank. The pattern was instantly recognizable-supraventricular tachycardia.

"Ten milliliters adenosine."

"Clear."

Her muscles contracted. "It's not working," said the nurse through clenched teeth. I recognized her. Barbara, Betty-something with a "B"…that wasn't important right now. Funny how your brain picks up the most irrelevant details under pressure.

"Try the sotalol."

"Her e.f. is too low, that could kill her!"

"Better risk it than stand around waiting." My pager beeped again. I gritted my teeth and turned it off. "Go."

We stood, waiting, then I gave an immense sigh of relief as her heart rate returned to normal. _Crisis averted._

"Someone should go get her mother."

"I'll do that."

Then Sarah stuck her head around the corner. "I've been paging you!"

I strode over to her and kissed her on the cheek. "Sorry, Angie just crashed again."

"Bed four…she'll have to monitored another few days, this is the second time this month."

"Yeah. What was it you needed?"  
"It's your desk."

"My-what?" I asked, taken aback.

"It's been cleaned out. Here, I'll show you."

It was a short walk to my office. Everything seemed to be where I had left it-tea on my desk, laptop open and charging. I strode around the desk carefully. Two of the drawers were open, and empty.

I felt the other knobs. Cold, so this had been done a while ago. I opened them. Empty, empty, empty, empty-except for the last one, which dumped three hundred pieces of blank paper and some playing cards over the floor. I sighed. Ten of the pages were about the medical benefits of cranberries.

"I know," I said, pinching the bridge of my nose, "exactly who is behind this."

On the back of the last page was a note.

_Lestrade's office, five this evening. Don't be late._

_SH_


	4. Tension

"We cracked the password," said Lestrade. He looked worse. Not just tired, now, but something different, something harder to place…scared? No. That was an absurd notion-the man in front of me was as brave as any I had known back in Afghanistan. Quick to shout, maybe, but when you got down to it he was as steady as a rock. He, like me, had seen unspeakable things done to people and yet was as normal as anyone who regularly deals with Sherlock can be. His career demanded a cool, unflappable calm. The though of him being afraid of anything just didn't make sense to me. That didn't keep me from being slightly more nervous about whatever it was he had found.

"And?" Sherlock was rocking back and forth on his heels over Lestrade's laptop, an impatient scowl on his face. Lestrade cleared his throat and adjusted his tie. He turned to me, concern flitting across his lined face for the briefest of seconds.

"John, do you, uh, want to sit down?"

"No, thanks, I'm fine," I said, swallowing my mounting sense of apprehension.

"Well," he began, "we found a file. On the USB, that is, and it…it's…you can see for yourself.  
He clicked on file. It was titled with a number-110610.

"Date," I said quietly, throwing a glance at Sherlock. "Right?"

He nodded appreciatively. "Good. Six weeks ago, to the day."  
The file loaded quickly. I'll try to reproduce it here as best as I can remember it.

**221 **3 3 3 3 3 2 2 2 2 2 3 3 2 2 2 2 3 3 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 23 3 3 2 2 2 3 3 2 3 2 3 2

We were silent for about three very long seconds.

"Well, it's obvious, isn't it?" said Sherlock, annoyed. "Someone's been monitoring our flat. Hardly out of the ordinary."

"We figured that," said Lestrade, and for once he didn't sound annoyed at the detective's blunt superiority. "I just wanted to point out that it says 221."

"Not 221B," I said, realization dawning. I frowned. "But why bother tracking all the dates? If they're watching and waiting…"

"They wanted to establish a pattern…but that still doesn't quite…," said Sherlock absentmindedly. Suddenly he stood bolt upright and whipped out his Blackberry.

"Shit," he muttered, punching numbers in furiously. "No, no, no, no…" He held the phone to his ear and with a sickening churn of my stomach I realized that his hand was shaking slightly.

"Pick up," he whispered. "Come on now…" Nothing happened, then he gave an almost imperceptible sigh of relief. "Mycroft. Check the CCTV on 221C."  
I gripped the back of Lestrade's chair very, very hard, just as I heard the DI inhale sharply. I can say quite confidently that we were all thinking the same thing:

_Mrs. Hudson._


	5. Danger Signs

**Thanks for the reviews, guys. This is pretty much my first fanfiction ever, so they help. Keep it coming. Constructive criticism and Brit-picking will be much appreciated.**

_Premise number one:_

_Mycroft asked me why I wanted him to check the CCTV_

_Therefore:_

_He does not yet have reason to believe anything is wrong._

_Conclusion:_

_Root canal or important politics. Amounts to the same thing._

_Premise number two:_

_The numbers stop at last Tuesday._

_Therefore:_

_This USB belonged to the dead man._

_Conclusion:_

_He is directly connected to whoever has been monitoring the flat. He was wearing a rather expensive suit, _

_Therefore:_

_He could not be the person monitoring the flat, because Moriarty would not send an obviously high level connection or associate of some sort._

_Therefore:_

_This man must have been working for Moriarty, and was either dissatisfactory, or, more likely, given the obvious nature of the circumstances, he _wanted_ me to find him. He knew how long it would take the Yard to crack the encrypted file. He has timed this._

_Conclusion:_

_He is waiting for a signal, a sign that I know Mrs. Hudson is in danger._

_Premise number three:_

_I have just called my stubborn __arse__ of a brother._

_Premise number four:_

_Moriarty has phone-call tapping abilities to rival those of the government._

_Therefore:_

_This constitutes as a signal._

_Conclusion:_

_Mrs. Hudson is either dying or already-_

With a near superhuman effort of will, Sherlock dragged himself out of that line of reasoning. It wouldn't do to get upset now, not when he needed to keep a clear head. Every second they stood here was another second Mrs. Hudson was in immediate danger. That thought process had wasted almost five seconds of it.  
"Just _do it_," he snarled into the mobile. John-bless him-looked calm and controlled, although he was keeping a white-knuckled grip on Lestrade's chair that betrayed some of the anxiety he was feeling.

"All right. Nothing appears to be amiss in the living room."

"Try her bedroom." That room had a window facing the opposite street-he had noticed it the last time he had been trying to steal his skull back. The clicking of laptop keys filtered across the line.

"Ah." Something had changed in Mycroft's voice. Before it had been merely (as usual) superior, but now there was a definite edge to it. "You had best get there quickly."

"Not…she's not dead?"

John closed his eyes.

"I am unable to tell whether or not she is still breathing, Sherlock. Don't waste time talking. Go."

He hung up, grabbing his coat from the chair as Lestrade got up and sprinted out the door. John grabbed his jacket and followed.

"Is she going to be alright?"

That question…unnerved him slightly. He didn't like this. It was the same with the families of the recently deceased, whenever he was on a case with John…this part had always aroused a small twinge of painful empathy. Strange. It had never bothered him before. How did John do it, every day, at the clinic?

"I don't know. But if we get there fast enough-it takes a person about ten minutes to bleed out."  
The doctor's mouth formed a thin, hard line as they dashed after Lestrade.

_Conclusion:_

_Not good. Definitely not good._

He backtracked hastily. "I mean, you could help, with your medical experience and all, I thought you might want the facts. As it were."  
"Right." He looked marginally less uneasy. A Sergeant gave him an affronted look as Sherlock shoved past him and John hastily muttered an apology.  
He climbed into the squad car. Lestrade was already in it. John got in after him and it sped off, an ambulance in its wake.

The sirens _screamed_.

We arrived within a matter of minutes, but to me it still seemed like far too long. The door had been blocked. I looked at Sherlock. He nodded, and, together, we kicked it down.

Lestrade followed. It was quiet inside, too quiet, the kind that feels a like a palpable pressure on your eardrums. The door to 221C was open, foreboding. I ran inside. The door to the bedroom was open as well.

Mrs. Hudson was lying against the far wall. I had seen enough ballistic trauma to know that we had very little time to spare.

"Get the paramedics in here," I commanded. Lestrade nodded and left the room.

Sherlock knelt down next to her, removed his scarf, and pressed it to the side of her head.

I really, truly, almost lost it just then. She just looked so small.

"He's going to pay for this," said Sherlock quietly, Mrs. Hudson's blood flowing down his wrists, already having soaked through the scarf. The medics wheeled in a gurney and hoisted her on, securing her neck with a brace. Her grayish blond hair was matted with red.

"I am going to kill him." The statement was cold, emotionless.

I had only known Sherlock for a relatively short amount of time, but I already knew the danger signs. Utter lack of inflection was one of them. He was dead serious.

He turned to me, still holding the blood soaked scarf. There was some staining his blazer. He didn't appear, on the outside, angry. He didn't appear to be feeling anything at all. It was…disturbing. Lestrade had come back in.

"They're hopeful," he said. "Her prognosis is…good. Optimistic, even, for someone who just...Er."

His eyes flicked to the floor. There was a puddle of dark red on it. Some of it had splattered up against the wall, staining the wallpaper.

Sherlock cocked his head. "That…is very good news. I'm going to need to see the body your people discovered last Tuesday."

Lestrade nodded. "I'll talk to Anderson."  
"_No_," we replied simultaneously.  
"I mean," I amended, "it my go faster if you bypass that. Just saying."

He smiled. "I see."

Sherlock, to my surprise, grinned back. The dark, murderous look that had crossed his face before Mrs. Hudson's well being had been confirmed had passed. The hard, keen glitter was back in his eyes.

"Finally," he breathed. "Progress."


	6. Old Enemies

**Thanks for the feedback, people. As always, reviews are appreciated.**

"Well. Any ideas?"

Sherlock had completed his thorough examination of the body and was now leaning against the wall of the dimly lit morgue in a determinedly detached manner, like he had found nothing of any interest. I knew better; there was a slightly manic gleam in his eyes.

"Seven, so far."

"OK," I replied. "Care to share?"

"Nope."

"You're doing it again."

"Yes."

I sighed. Lestrade frowned. "Sorry, he's doing what?"

"Testing me."

"You know my methods," he said smugly. "Apply them."

I tried not to linger on my surroundings-the morgue was uncomfortably similar to the hospital I had worked at in Afghanistan. _Well, the mortality rate's pretty close, _I thought grimly.

If I concentrated, I could almost hear the explosions, the screaming, see the blood on my hands that stubbornly remained there even after it was physically gone-

No. Focus.

"Uh…So he's young, mid twenties, blond hair-"

"Cut the poetry, John, I can see perfectly fine from where I'm standing."

"'The truest poetry is the most feigning, and l-'ow!" He had kicked me in the shin.

"All right," said Lestrade wearily. "That's enough, children."

"L96," I began, glaring at Sherlock. "So the killer was a military man. Given the nature of the gun, he probably trained for this type of thing…" I glanced at Sherlock. He nodded encouragingly. "He never actually went into the park, since there's no mud on his shoes and it just rained. So…he could have been out for a walk…right?"

"No, no, _no_. Why not?"

"I…I'm sorry, that's all. I don't know."

He raised his eyebrows. "That was quite good, actually. I'm impressed."

Lestrade folded his arms. "Let's hear it, then."

Sherlock stepped forward, in his element. "The man was called there for a specific purpose. He _does_ have some residue on his pants leg, but it's not thick enough to be mud from the park, so…"

"Curb," I realized.

"Correct. He took a cab, and was a bit careless in stepping onto the sidewalk. The important thing is that he was summoned. Notice the lack of a phone. Man like this, you'd expect him to carry something expensive, almost definitely some sort of smart-phone, but there's no sign of one. He would have taken meticulous care of it, to, so he didn't forget it at home, he was told to leave it. Why? Someone could have been monitoring him."

"Hang on," interrupted Lestrade. "How would you know that?"

Sherlock gritted his teeth. "Did you even _check _the wallet?"

"Yeah, we've been over this, there was some cash, nothing else. We didn't check too closely, I mean, it didn't have a business card or anything…"

"Three thousand quid, Lestrade. Who walks around with that kind of money? This could have been a drop, he could have had shady connections, either way this looks bad."

"Because he had a little extra money in his wallet," said Lestrade skeptically.

"Because he came dressed in a suit, with the USB, slightly before five in the morning, in a dark alley near Hyde park, with _three thousand pounds_."

"Definitely looks suspicious," I said.

"And then there's the wrists," he continued.

"What?"

"The wrists," he snapped impatiently. "Don't tell me you haven't noticed." He groaned when we replied with blank looks. "How many times? Check _everything_! Especially the little things, those are the most important!"

I undid the sleeve buttons and felt his wrists. They were swollen, fatigued. "The ligament's swollen. Carpal tunnel?"

"Exactly," he said, sounding almost proud. I couldn't help smiling. I had gotten _something_ right.

"So…hacker?"

"Almost definitely. That data stick was 32 GB. Not necessary for a usual high profile IT worker, who are usually managers, anyway. Evidently this person had some expertise."

"Okay," said Lestrade, starting to sound frustrated, "but do you know who he is?"

"_Was_," corrected Sherlock. "And I don't. Someone will come forward soon enough, he hasn't been answering calls for five days now. But I'm almost positive who did this."

I looked up. "What? Wh-How?"

"I've dealt with him…before." His expression darkened. "Sebastian Moran."

Lestrade inhaled sharply.

I hated feeling like an outsider. One year I'd been at this mad detective business and I apparently had only brushed the surface. "Who's that?"

"Do you remember the Kent murders a few years ago?"

"Yeah…they were all high level people, possible mob connections…"

"All sniper attacks. With an L96. Moriarty uses the same person every time for this type of murder. He might as well leave his card."

"And, let me guess, no one has any clue where he might be."

"No one has ever caught him. I don't pretend to be so cocky as to think I could be the first."

"Wait, wait, what?" I said incredulously. "You're letting this _go_?"

He shrugged. "It's a lost cause. I've tried. He'll come out to play when he's ready. Until then, it's a waiting game." He let that sink in. "Well, I don't know about you two, but I want tea. Come on, John, we're done here."

I followed, grumbling under my breath, "Well, the tea certainly won't make itself, now, will it?"


	7. The Waiting Game

**The T rating shall kick in shortly for drug references. Cover your children's ears. **

"Here. You wanted the Darjeeling, right?"

"Mmm. Of course."

The world's only consulting detective was stretched out on the brown leather sofa in his trademark navy blue coat, having been too lazy to take it off when we got back. The flat felt cozy, invitingly warm. It was cluttered, but I liked that, as long as the clutter didn't endanger the lives of the room's occupants too severely. It felt lived in. Nice.

Mrs. Hudson was not yet back from the hospital. She would live, though, as the bullet hadn't passed through or even lodged in her brain. No brain damage; when she returned in a few weeks, she would be the same old Mrs. Hudson.

We counted our blessings. Or I did, anyway.

"Sherlock," I said suddenly, caught up in a contemplative mood, "do you believe in God?"

There was a short silence. He slowly brought the teacup down from his mouth, set it on the coffee table. "Why do you want to know?"

I avoided his eye, suddenly sheepish. "I don't…forget it. It's nothing."

"No, it's a very interesting question."

"You don't have to answer if you don't want to."

"No, it's…fine. I suppose the answer is that I really don't know."

His voice was uncharacteristically soft. "I was raised a Catholic. And when I was at university, I…fell in with the wrong crowd, you could say. Well. When I say wrong crowd, I mean the rich, pampered elite, like Mycroft and me were, and they…hated me. For being different, I was alone, more so than…"

He lapsed into silence, the ghosts of his own private horrors and insecurities flitting across the blank mask that was his face. "I turned to drugs. Cocaine, a seven percent solution. One night, I was confused, angry. I don't know what I was thinking. I shouldn't have lived."

He sighed and sat up on the sofa so that our shoulders brushed. "If you take all the factors into account, it was only by some extraordinary stroke of luck that someone found me, and later, I didn't know what else to call it, than…" His mouth set in an unwavering line. There was another long pause. "Can we talk about something else?"

I kept my voice steady with an effort of will. "If I was to search the flat, really search, would I find anything?" He didn't respond. "Sherlock, I need to know. I'm your friend, I want to help."

"You don't need to. That part of my life is over. There's nothing left."

I sighed. I had to trust him. "How long have you been clean?"

"For almost a year now."

That was about how long I had known him, I realized with a mix of affection and…what? Guilt? I needed to change the subject. "So…Moran."

He seemed relieved to have something else to talk about. "Yes."

"We're just going to sit around twiddling our thumbs until someone else dies?"

"I know patience doesn't come easily to you, John."

I elbowed him. "Who makes the tea? Who buys the milk? Who-"

"-was planning to make risotto?" He looked around in mock surprise. "Wait, who said that?"

I flopped back on the couch and groaned. He's incorrigible, I swear. "It's almost eight."

"Stores will still be open, I expect."

I got up. No sense in prolonging the inevitable. "Fine. I should get going."  
To my surprise, he got up, too. "You're going to need me to tell you what kind of wine to get."

"I'm perfectly capable-"

"You're complaining because I'm offering to help?"

"I'm wondering what mad scheme of yours is behind the offer."

"Must there always be an ulterior motive?"

"With you? When was the last time you did anything out of the goodness of your heart?"

"I made soup two weeks ago!"

"You set the microwave on fire…how, I still have no idea." I shrugged on my jacket, then scrutinized him. "Maybe it isn't a good idea to leave you at home alone."

"That's right. Just think, with Mrs. Hudson not here…"

"I'm sure your boredom would run rampant through what's left of the kitchen. God, I don't even want to think about it. You're coming."

"Glad we got that settled," he said smugly, springing to the door.

"Oh, shut up."

If I had known, then, that it was going to turn in to the longest night of my life, I would have settled for cup noodles.

No one would have had to die.


	8. Shopping

I had anticipated that going grocery shopping with Sherlock was going to be a nightmare.

I have always had a knack for gross understatement.

"Okay," I muttered, checking the list again. "Chicken broth. I think we have that at home."

"I…wouldn't recommend using it for…food, though."

I glanced up at him. "Why not?"

"Trace amounts of strychnine. "

I ran a hand through my hair. "Sherlock, I almost let Mrs. Hudson borrow that last week!"

"I said _trace_ amounts! She wouldn't have felt a thing."

"Well, either way we need edible chicken broth. Here, how about you take half, and I'll-wait, we only have one list."

"One pound Portobello mushrooms, thinly sliced, one pound white mushrooms, thinly sliced, 2 shallots, diced, one and a half cups Arborio rice, and half a cup dry white wine," he recited at top speed, not glancing once at the ingredient list. "I can manage."

A young lady in a black apron smiled at us brightly. Her nametag screamed "Hi, I'm Kathy!" in headache-inducing fluorescent pink.

"Will you two need any help tonight?"

"Uh, yeah," I said, checking the list yet again. "Do you know which aisle the seafood is in?"

"No, but she'll know where the wine is, no doubt," said Sherlock. "Am I right, Miss Kathy? Or is it Mrs.?"

She blushed furiously. "Excu-"

"You're quite young to be cheating on your husband…actually, you're quite young to be married at all…"

"And you're a little old to be involved with _him_," she spat at me.

"Er, we're not, uh, together." Not _again_, I moaned inwardly, although I had to shove down a little twinge of pride as I had spotted the imprint where a wedding ring should have been on her left ring finger before Sherlock had said anything. I, unlike him, knew how to keep my mouth shut.

"What are you talking about, John? I'm standing right next to you!"

"No, Sherlock, she meant _together._ You know, like-"

"Oh." An expression of mild disgust crossed his face. "But you're half my height!"

"Can we just-please, I'm very sorry about this, I don't know what's gotten into him. The shallots…"

"Aisle six," she said curtly, stalking off.

"Women," muttered Sherlock.

I shook my head despondently. "Even so, you can't just…lay people's lives out for them like that."

"It's the truth."

"Yes, exactly, that's the point! People don't like hearing things about themselves that they wish weren't true."

"Then they are just deluding themselves. Blissfully ignorant, the lot of them. It's pathetic."

"Can we discuss this over risotto?" My stomach was starting to complain; between casework and the clinic I had barely had time to eat. "Sherlock? Are you even listening?"

He had gone oddly still, head cocked, eyes vacant. His arms hung limply at his sides. He was staring at the automatic doors with a thoroughly absentminded expression.

"John," he said quietly, as I followed his gaze, "those doors have not opened for the past ten minutes."

"It's almost nine, everything's closing. Because people are _home_, eating _dinner_."

"That's not what I meant, John." For some unfathomable reason a chill snaked down my spine.

"Okay…exactly what are you getting at?"

"There were almost, what, twenty people in here when we entered?"

"And the doors haven't opened or closed…"

"…so no one has left."

I was suddenly acutely aware of the insidious silence of the grocery store. It was like someone had pressed mute. The sound was _gone._

"Where is everyone?" I whispered. I wasn't sure why I was keeping my voice down. Perhaps it was the fact that the bright fluorescent light of the grocery store suddenly seemed sinister, clinical, and all too reminiscent of the lights in the OR.

He walked towards the door like he was in a trance and stood in front of them for the briefest of seconds before whirling around, urgency bordering on panic clear in his voice.

"Call 9-9-9, NOW."

I didn't answer, remembering with a sinking feeling that I had left my phone in the kitchen. _Right next to the hydrochloric acid. Not the best idea._

I ran to a cash register. There was an abandoned mobile resting there. I picked it up, only to toss it back down, dismayed. It was out of charge.

"Okay," I said, "okay. We need to-"

Then the lights went out.


	9. Signs and Symptoms

**Argh, guys, I'm so sorry to do this to you. But I want to do my research and get the next bit right. It's going to be amazing, I promise. **

"John!"

"I'm right here, Sherlock."

His gloved hand slipped into mine. I gripped it hard before I let go, not sure whether I was giving comfort or receiving it. Either way, I was glad to know he was next to me in the oppressive darkness. I couldn't see anything. It was like being blind-whether my eyes were open or not made no difference.

"We can't just stand here," he hissed, leaning down to whisper into my ear.

"What if we set something off? Besides, someone will notice that there's been a power cut to just this building."

"No they won't. Look outside."

I did. There didn't seem to be anything out of the ordinary.

Then I realized. "Ah."

There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact-it was dark out, too. Completely dark.

I cleared my throat, nervous all of a sudden. "But…he couldn't have cut the power to the whole city…could he?"

"I don't know. It would be the logical thing to do, try and hide in plain sight."

A hissing noise cut through his words. "What…"

"Shut up!" I interrupted harshly. "Try not to….breathe…"

Too late.

I gagged, sank to my knees.

The last thing I remembered was a searing pain in my throat and then…nothing.

Sherlock sat up, blind in the darkness of the supermarket. His stomach lurched slightly as he got to his feet. He had a headache coming on. There was a red light in front of him…blurred…odd. He blinked. Ah, that was better. He picked the object up cautiously.

It was a laser pointer.

"So that's the game," he muttered to himself.

"Oh, do you like it?" interrupted a high, cold voice. He was so startled he nearly dropped the pointer. It was coming from the PA system. He reached backwards to feel for the metal shelf, gripping it for support, heart pounding.

"Did I scare you?" continued Moriarty, an almost childish glee seeping into his voice. It echoed. It was unsettling, all this sound that appeared to be coming from nowhere. "_Terribly_ sorry, we're under new management."

"So it seems."

"Well…I have to say, I'm touched, really I am. The first person you thought of upon awaking was me. Sweet of you. Doctor Watson would be _jealous_."

He wished he could say the only emotion this evoked in him was righteous fury. But he would be lying.

The truth was that he started to panic. The physiological signs were there: elevated heart rate, sweating palms, shallow breathing. He couldn't see, but was willing to bet that his pupils had dilated.

A few milliseconds later the psychological symptoms manifested themselves. His mind leapt into overdrive, playing out all the things Moriarty could be doing to John as he stood there, blind. John, asphyxiating. John, twitching in pain, alone, helpless, lost…

_Overall, _said the part of his brain still thinking rationally, _all of these appear to have the same outcome. You are afraid of only one thing._

John Watson, his doctor, his colleague, his _friend_, gone. Dead. It just didn't make any _sense._

_My fault. _

His voice shook with the effort of keeping it under control. "What. Have you. Done. To him."

Moriarty's voice, by contrast, sank to a low and dangerous level. "Play the game, Sherlock. Then we'll see."


	10. Minutes to Midnight

Lestrade settled back into his ergonomic swivel chair for a few precious minutes of peace and quiet, alone in his office. It was a little oasis of calm, at odds with the raging chaos outside. The phone had been ringing off the hook for the past hour-reports of what was starting to look like an entire city blackout were pouring in from all corners of London. That wasn't all-there were also reports of thefts, looters, fears about looters, break-ins, and the odd idiot who decided a nice rooftop stroll was a good idea. They were running on emergency power and anyone who had been unlucky enough to be on the night shift or even in the building when the blackout struck.

Detective Inspector Alison Sato-a young, slim, Japanese woman in from the Hendon Metcall with a sharp tongue and sharper intellect-poked her head around the door. "Got a moment, Lestrade? You left your phone on Hopkins' desk."

"Stan? He probably wanted to take it apart out of curiosity. I'm surprised it still works."

"You have…ten missed calls. From a…Mycroft? You know him?"

Hmm. Not even a snide comment about his forgetfulness. She must have been exhausted.

"Sherlock's brother?" That was strange -Mycroft never texted if he could call, and never called if he could kidnap, bribe, vaguely threaten or otherwise coerce someone into doing something.

Something had to be wrong.

"The Freak has a _brother_?" she said, with obvious distaste. She held up her hands in the universal not-my-problem gesture. "Well, he's your area. I don't want anything to do with him."

There was a sudden commotion from outside.

"Inspector Sato! Get out here, we've got an S grade in NW2!"

She sighed, brushing aside some stray hairs from her forehead and adjusting her cuttingly modern rectangular glasses to fit her thin face. They hid the dark circles under her eyes surprisingly well-they were severely understaffed for the night and there was no telling how long this blackout would last. "Duty calls. Catch you later, all right?"

"Yeah, sure. Thanks."

"Not a problem."

He scrolled down. He _had_ called ten times, noted Lestrade with a sinking feeling. This probably had something to do with Sherlock. Lately it seemed that even when it wasn't about him it was about him. Or John. Or, more likely, both of them. There were some strange rumors going around…well, no matter. He pressed "call."

"Hello?"

"Inspector Lestrade. You finally saw fit to return my calls. I assume you had other, more pressing matters to attend to?"

"Er…yes. There's been a blackout…"

"I'm very aware, Inspector, and I have some people working on it. However, that is not my reason for calling you."

"I don't suppose you just wanted to chat?" he asked a little nervously.

"No. It has come to my attention that John and Sherlock left their flat at around eight forty five this evening. They have yet to return and, as you are no doubt aware, it has been two hours."

"Well I'm sure-"

"Neither of them is answering calls."

"They could be-"

"If I recall correctly, you informed me that they were given a case to do with a one Sebastian Moran, who was responsible for the Kent shootings in 2009?"

"Yes."

"That wouldn't involve any legwork, would it?"

"No…"

"So tell me where they could be."

"Er…out? At a…bar?"

"John does not drink. Neither does Sherlock."

"Well…they could be…look, I don't mean to be rude, but how the hell would I know where they could be? I mean, there's been a blackout, yes, but they're perfectly capable of handling themselves."

"You would be interested to know that the tails I had set on them disappeared a few hours ago. We just found them."

"Where?"

"In an alley near a grocery store. In several, cleverly concealed pieces. They had to fish one of their heads out of a dumpster to ensure it was, indeed, the same person I had hired."

His stomach flip-flopped. "That's…not a good sign, is it."

"No."

"I'll be right on it," he said, rising from his seat and going for his coat. What with the blackout, traffic was going to be a nightmare.

This was _bad_.

_Okay,_ he thought, _ just another hostage situation. Don't think about them being dead. Just don't._

He broke into a sprint.


	11. False Lead

Sherlock flicked the laser pointer on. Then off. Then on again.

He had been doing this for the past two minutes.

The speakers had gone silent. The lights were still off. Nothing was happening and it was starting to irritate him.

"So," he began quietly. "Evidently there aren't any reflective surfaces in here."

On. Off.

"So maybe this isn't a laser pointer."

On. Off.

"Then it's a clue? Electronics department, maybe?"

He stepped forward cautiously and tripped over a discarded tissue box. Hauling himself up into a sitting position, he pulled out his pocket magnifier and shone the laser through the flat glass portion of it. The light refracted, turning it into a crude flashlight. Whatever he shone it on was now bathed in a dim red glow. The appallingly painted ceiling, the…floor…

Was that water?

He toed the puddle on the floor. Yes, definitely water.

And it was rising.

"John can't swim, you know," he said aloud, heart pounding.

There was no answer.

"…but you knew that already, didn't you," he muttered, resigned to the fact that he was not going to get a response. He shrugged off his coat, folded it neatly, and stowed it on the highest shelf he could reach.

The water was now around his ankles.

He trudged through the maze of shelves. It was difficult-lots of dead ends, false trails, and shelves that seemed to point in the right direction but ultimately led him in circles. Once or twice he thought he saw something dark slide beneath the water, but it was gone before he could verify its origins. Later he would discover it had been a once frozen fish. The irony would not escape him.

The water kept rising.

Sherlock started to notice a pattern. The water would rise when he took certain paths, lower at others. At the moment it was getting steadily lower. A good sign.

Then he turned a corner, and the good sign became a decidedly bad one.

_John. _


	12. Last Goodbyes

**I felt sad writing this. And I am going to feel sad writing the rest of this. So I'm going to do a sequel. **

**Also: I'm particularly proud of this chapter. I don't even know why.**

**EDIT: Solved the mystery of the teleporting coat. Sorry about that. I _knew_ there was something wrong with that sentence...Made some other minor wording changes.**

Two small, clear bottles sat on a table, with one small, clear pill in each. One was on John's side. He was seated in a deliberately demeaning miniscule plastic chair.

The other chair was empty.

"No," he said automatically. "No, I'm sorry, I'm not doing that."

"Sherlock…just sit down." John looked resigned. There was enough fear in his eyes to let Sherlock know it was a façade.

He sat.

"What happens if I refuse?" He was maintaining steady contact with John's warm brown eyes. _Are you okay?_

John's eyes crinkled slightly, and his shoulders twitched in what could have been a shrug. _Been better. I'll live._

This air of nonverbal causality was keeping them both under control. The most important thing was not to panic.

"Well…I decided maybe the first time was a little too…easy. So I made some revisions," answered the PA system. "Oh, you're going to love this," he said with a sudden gleeful aplomb. _Skritch, skritch, skritch._

John frowned almost imperceptibly. He recognized the noise. What was it?

_Skritch, skriiiitch…_

"Sit up straight, boys, we have a guest."

Strained, sporadic sobbing filtered in over the loudspeaker.

"Tell us about yourself."

"My name…is K-Katherine Greene. I'm seventeen years old…I have a m-mum, a dad and…a little brother…." She dissolved into tears.

_Skritch, skritch._

"Now, Kathy here is an excellent artist. She drew me a picture-" _Skriiitch- _"with this pencil. She's very modest. She didn't tell you about her eyes. She has beautiful eyes…open wide now, my dear…ooh, they're green. Lovely."

"No…no, please…._please…_"

"STOP IT!" John rose from his seat so quickly he knocked the chair over.

**BANG.**

"Do not interrupt me, please, that's very rude," continued Moriarty with a air of casual, superior detachment. John sat back down slowly, righting the chair. He had gone rather pale.

"There are fifteen more. You may as well….Oh, but this is touching, Sherlock," he said with a kind of horrible mock sympathy as Sherlock shook his head. "You'd really rather see fifteen people die than take a gamble?"

John leaned forward. "Sherlock, no. You can't do this. I mean, _I _can't let you do this. I-I'm a doctor, I was in the army, I can't just sit and do nothing while…it's my duty, okay?"

_No_, it was most decidedly _not_ okay.

There were 6.6 billion people in the world, but there would only ever be one John Watson.

But what else could he do?

_Fifty-fifty chance. What do you think Moriarty wants? _

_He doesn't want to kill me. He wants to make me suffer first._

"I know you've got a theory," said Moriarty softly. "Go on."

Fingers trembling, he reached for the bottle opposite him. John took the other. Their arms brushed.

Together, they unscrewed the caps and popped their respective pills.

He closed his eyes. Maybe it would be over quickly. He hoped so. He wouldn't want John to have to see him gone…wrong.

Nothing happened.

The loudspeaker had apparently gone quiet, except for the faint sound of sirens. It didn't matter.

He opened his eyes. John looked confused.

"I'm not feeling anything," he said slowly.

"Yeah, you shouldn't be."

"Sherlock," he said, sounding hurt. "You…no. You didn't."

"I could be wrong. But probably not.

They were silent for a few moments, mulling it over.

"Well…I just want you to know, whatever happens, you're still my friend. It's funny, I used to be so scared of dying…and, well…I had the time of my life, it was crazy, yeah, but it was also kind of…fun."

Sherlock nodded, not trusting himself with words. What John had said really drove it home-this was it. One way or another…

Then, an altogether strange look passed over John's face.

"What?"

He was breathing hard. "Getting…getting some dizziness here."

_No, no, no, no! I thought it out! __**It's not supposed to end like this!**_

He stood up so quickly the chair splashed to the floor. "Okay. Give me more."

"Uh…fingertips cold…okay, cold extremities, dizziness, n-" he retched. "Nausea." He started to wheeze.

"Wait, wait, wait, what does that _mean_?"

"Bronchospasm," gasped John. "Could be damn near…anything…uh…shit."

His fingertips were turning blue.

"Raynaud's," he managed. "And…er…" His blue fingers fumbled for his throat, feeling for a pulse. "My heart…rate's… funny. Probably beta-blocker poisoning."

"But what am I supposed to do?"

"Nothing…it's okay…you're more…important…"

He wanted to throw something. "I am not _more important_, you filthy hypocrite, weren't you telling me just a few weeks ago that every human life is worth the same?"

"You'll…be fine…I'm sure you'll find someone else to…room with…it's a big world out there," he choked out in between strained, heaving breaths.

"Shut UP!" he exploded. "It's not that big! I met you, didn't I? John-John, _please-_"

His eyes had rolled back and he had slumped backward in his seat. The position would be slightly comical if he hadn't been going through cardiac arrest.

_No, no, no, no…._

_Focus,_ he thought, pacing furiously, water slapping at his shoes in cold, hungry way. He had read about this. Beta-blocker poisoning…there was an antidote, what _was _it…

_Insulin._

The pharmaceutical department was supposed to be to the right. But the shelves had been specifically set up to trick him-the things that would usually be near the pharmacy-toothpaste, over the counter drugs-only pointed away from it. It took him five whole minutes to find it and another three to find a pen and rip it from the package. Erin C. Walters would not be picking up her prescription tomorrow. It took him about thirty seconds to retrace the route. There were urgent footsteps and splashes, now, intermittent throughout the maze. Probably the police. He didn't care. It didn't matter.

There was a loud, echoing bang, eliciting a rush of static from the speakers. Gunshot. The silence following it was deafening.

A faint rustling from the loudspeaker was interrupted by more rapid fire gunshot, screaming, then, _finally,_ a blessedly familiar voice.

"Okay-okay, is this thing on-Sherlock? Sherlock, if you can hear me-_stay where you are_! Don't move, we're on our way, all right?"

"Oh God, is that-"

_Lestrade and Donovan, _he thought hazily, as the fear and adrenaline started to ramp up wildly again. No time for celebrating. John was still in the chair, still resolutely not moving, or, he realized with a thrill of horror, breathing. He felt around for the carotid artery. _No pulse. Come on, John…_

His fingers were shaking, unable to undo the doctor's sleeve buttons, so he opted to just rip the sleeve off.

He swore under his breath furiously. His hands were barely steady enough to push the needle under the skin after he had adjusted the dosage. What was _wrong _with him? Sherlock was faintly conscious of voices still filtering in from the intercom.

"It's John-oh, _fuck_, it's-WOULD YOU HURRY IT UP! THERE IS A MAN DYING IN THERE!"

_I know_, he thought desperately. _Must you always insist on stating the obvious?_

He dragged John from the chair and began CPR. Suddenly to his immense relief, Lestrade, a CO-19 team, and several men in sharply tailored suits sprinted down the aisle.

"There's an ambulance outside, let's get him out of here," said Lestrade. The CO-19 team made short work of it.

"Wait," muttered Sherlock, moving to follow them. "Wait…no, I need to…"

Lestrade shoved him back into the chair with a frantic intensity so unlike his usual calm (if slightly exasperated) demeanor that Sherlock was having some difficulty accepting it was him. "_Absolutely_ not," he growled. "What's your name?"

"I'm not doing this right now, just let me-"

"Damn it, just answer the question!"

"Your concern is touching," he said sarcastically, trying to hide how badly his hands were shaking by clasping them in his lap. "My name is Sherlock Holmes, I am thirty two years old, I'm in London, and you are being an idiot."

Lestrade breathed a sigh of relief. "You're fine, then, just sit down until I can get someone to look you over and make sure."

"John-"

"Is being given the best medical attention we could find on such short notice with all the power in the city out. You're not going to help by hurting yourself."

"It's very important-I gave him insulin for-look, they've got to know, _they could screw something up_!"

"It's fine," he said soothingly, emptily, obviously believing he was in shock or something similarly idiotic.

"It's not fine!"

"You need to rest. We can discuss what happened later."

"Where's Sergeant Donovan?" he asked, on a sudden, small burst of curiosity.

"Upstairs, with Anderson, they're going over the footage-hey, hey, I didn't say it was alright for you to move around yet!"

But he was already halfway up the stairs to the security room. The store was swarming with police officers, the people in suits-_Mycroft's men,_ he realized-and he could barely squeeze his way in.

Donovan and Anderson were leaning over a screen, rewinding. The rest of the room was bustling with activity; forensic photographers, doctors leaning over the wounded and traumatized, and assorted members of law enforcement organizations and the like all doing whatever it was they liked to call "investigation." Ha. The tape was still running.

"No…no, please…_please_…"

"STOP IT!"

Donovan hurriedly hit the pause button as he strode into the room.

"Hello…Sherlock. Are you…?" She was eyeing him like a bomb that could go off at any moment.

"Fine," he snapped. "Why are you in here, Anderson, weren't you forensics the last time I checked? I would think even you would be able to determine how this happened," he said, gesturing to the prone body of Kathy on the floor. Squatting down beside her, he observed there was a neat little hole in the side of her forehead. Her green eyes were open, glassy._ Kind of them, almost. She felt nothing. _"Your people shot the others." There were about three or four people strewn arbitrarily around the room-muscle for hire.

Anderson glanced back at the frozen frame. John had half risen from his seat, his face a mixture of fear and indignation. The stillness of the captured moment really did bring out the emotions better. He had always preferred photographs to security tapes, anyway. "There aren't any bodies that warrant further investigation in here."

"Yet," added Anderson quietly, giving Donovan a significant look.

He was across the room and had him by the throat before he was fully conscious of the action.

"Gnhh…"

"Let him go!" yelled Donovan. Several of the men in suits drew pistols reflexively. Anderson was turning blue.

"OI!"

No one but Lestrade could shout like that. He commanded the attention of all the suddenly very intimidated looking Emergency Medical Technicians and government agents occupying the severely cramped room.

"Let him go, Sherlock. Anderson, I want a word with you in my office, later," said the Inspector calmly.

Sherlock let go, and the weasel-like man slid to the floor, retching.

"I…" everyone was staring at him. Not wanting to meet their eyes, he instead determinedly averted his gaze to the freeze frame of John. The auditory input from that moment seemed to replay itself in his mind. The terrified pleading of the girl. And that persistent, deceptively innocent _skritch, skritch, skriiiitch…._

Wait a moment.

Wait.

_Skritch, skritch._

_Premise Number One:_

_There are no pencils in this room. There are no pencil shavings visible in this room. Kathy didn't even have graphite near her eye. She didn't even have eyeliner. Signs of a struggle. _

_Irrelevant:_

_Perhaps I underestimated her._

_Therefore: _

_Moriarty could not have been in here._

_Conclusion:_

_He was controlling all of this remotely. _

_And I know from where._

He blinked.

It all came together. The pencil sharpening, the _whoosh_ noises, the faint sirens…

_Oh._

There was only one thing to do. It wouldn't be too hard. All he had to do was think about the fact that John could be dying, out there, right now, and the frantic efforts of the paramedics would all be in vain. It was unexpectedly hard to think about, but he had to convince himself: John was going to die, and it was all his fault.

The tears came so quickly and fiercely that it startled him.

_Don't show it, _he thought. _Just start babbling, isn't that what traumatized people do?_

"He said…he…trusted…me. And I-" His voice broke. This, surprisingly, was not very hard to fake either.

"I just don't know anymore," he whispered, wondering if he was laying it on a little too thick. But when he collapsed into the Inspector's strong arms there was little resistance, and even this was mostly borne of surprise.

From there, it was simplicity itself to nick the Glock 26 Lestrade had borrowed from one of the CO-19 people and slip it into his pocket, pausing only afterwards to hold back a triumphant smile. He let go, swiping at his eyes for dramatic effect.

The room was dead silent.

"We're all very sorry, and we hope…pray that he's going to be alright. Which he will be. John's a fighter." said Lestrade quietly, and those of the Yard present murmured their assent. They meant it, too. They understood Sherlock's reaction to Anderson's comment, even if they didn't condone it. They all knew John, liked him.

Let it never be said that they do not stand up for one of their own.

"I'm sorry," said Sherlock quietly, "I have to go. Tell me if…" This time he really couldn't finish the sentence. His throat seemed to have constricted, and there was an odd, tight feeling in his chest.

This caring lark was starting to get annoying.

"I'll call you _when_ he stabilizes," replied Lestrade, still watching him curiously.

He smiled, more thankful for the emphasis than he expected. "Thank you."

Mercifully, he reached the sidewalk before there was a burning feeling in his chest and he had to duck into a side alley. He bit down on the palm of his hand, leaned against the wall and _cried_, really cried, for the first time in years. The racking sobs were almost completely silent, muffled by his hand.  
It didn't really matter as there was no one around to care. And it hurt. Everything hurt. It hurt to breathe, it hurt to think, he just wanted out-

Then, spent, he slid down the grimy brick wall and sat in the snow, feeling scared and empty and very aware that he had left his coat in the store.

He pulled himself together, because that's what you _do_ when there's work to be done. Feeling sorry for yourself solves nothing. It's a big world out there. And it cuts its losses…

Sherlock Holmes got up and called a taxi, fingering the handgun in his pocket. This wasn't over yet. Not by half.


	13. The Final Problem

**Not being done yet has never felt so good. **

The campus was lit up erratically. Actually, as he had noticed on the ride here, the whole city was starting to regain power. It would be interesting to see what explanation Scotland Yard could come up with this time; somehow Sherlock suspected "gas leak" was not going to cut it.

It was, though, as most college campuses are at three in the morning, quietly bustling with life. More likely than not people were up poring over textbooks, getting shagged, or what have you in the comfort of their dorm rooms. There was a cold east wind picking up. He didn't notice. He could deal with a few minutes of bone-chilling London winter-he had been wanting to do this for a very long time. This particular University of London college had a pleasantly contemporary feel to it that was somewhat lost on him. There were more important things he had to do tonight than stand around admiring architecture.

He stopped by the library to verify some information, and then went to the appropriate building. The front door of the Reichenbach building was unlocked.

The teacher in question had tenure, a surprising achievement for someone who had only been teaching differential equations for four years. Not much else was known about Jerome Moore, according to the librarian, except that he was rakishly handsome, had written a textbook, and had a slight, lilting Irish accent. He was quiet, kept to himself.

His office was on the ninth floor. It had his name, nice and shiny and utterly fake, stenciled on the front door. Sherlock pushed it open.

There was a desk lamp on. The shelves were crammed with books, and there was a pile of test papers on the desk awaiting the mark of a red pen to sully them. A man was holding a paper up to his face, pen in hand, feet perched facetiously on the desk. He looked over at Sherlock with the same annoyingly smug expression he was so used to by now.

"Can I help you?" said Jim Moriarty. It was disconcerting how normal his voice sounded, how much the studious teacher he looked. He was even wearing reading glasses.

"Jerome Moore. You magnificent bastard," he said, "I read your book."

"_Differential Equations 101: Schrodinger and beyond,_" he recited lazily, twirling his pen. "Did you find it instructive?"

"Yes, very. The initials were a giveaway. You've been getting sloppy. Tell me, isn't this a little lowbrow for you? I imagined your lair with more chrome and less paperweights."

"I'm very comfortable. Care to sit?"

"I'll stand, thanks."

"What are you here for, Sherlock? You can't prove anything. I've created a lovely little life for myself here, and I'd rather you not start prying. I thought what I did to your boyfriend would be enough to convince you…"

"I'm not here to arrest you, if that's what you're worried about."

"I'm not very worried."

"Aren't you wondering, then?"

"Not really."

He pulled out the gun at leveled it at Moriarty's head. The man smiled. It was a horribly capricious, volatile sort of smile.

Sherlock hated that smile.

"You're _doing_ it wrong," said Moriarty quietly, switching to the falsetto so quickly that it was unsettling. There was a gleeful pleasure in the way he said that. He had one hand under his desk. A little alarm bell went off in Sherlock's head. There was a sudden blur of motion and some sixth sense told him to MOVE, MOVE NOW-

And before he could blink a knife tore through his sleeve, missing his arm by a hair's breadth. He pulled it out carefully.

"I daresay you're getting sloppy, too."

"That was risky," replied Sherlock, setting the knife down on a chair. He was, for the moment, ignoring the fact that Moriarty was absolutely right. He couldn't think straight. His heart was beating a tattoo on his ribcage: _John, please don't die, please don't die…._

It was ridiculous; whatever he was thinking was going to have no bearing on the outcome of the situation, but the image of John's kind brown eyes dim and cloudy and thoroughly, terrifyingly empty was burned into his mind. "My finger could have slipped."

"You still have the safety on."

_Click._

"You wouldn't shoot me, Sherlock."

"Yes I would-"

"No, you _really_ wouldn't. The Reichenbach building is overdue for a renovation- the walls are very thin. No one will ever be able to find out who I really am, and the police will have a…_perfect_…little homicide on their hands. I don't think they would be very surprised."

He had a point. Even if he had a silencer, which he didn't, someone was going to hear. He put the gun down.

"What do you suggest, then," he said flatly.

"I'd just like to make you a proposal. One last time. No, no, don't move-just hear me out. This has been all fun and games 'till now-"

"_Ha._"

"Listen to me. We're…more alike than you'd like to believe, you and me, me and you…us." He paused; let the word linger on the air. "We could do…amazing things together. They wouldn't stand a chance. Nothing could stop us."

"We could rule the world!" Sherlock finished, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Do you even know how clichéd that sounds?"

"Just think about it! You'd never be bored again, you wouldn't have to be surrounded by idiots, you could let people see what _real_ genius looks like-"

"I _am_ thinking about it. And it's very tempting, believe me." He wasn't lying. It was scary how much he wanted to say yes. The offer was tantalizing, except for the glaringly obvious snag. "You hurt John."

He was smiling again. "But I'm sure he'll be just fine, won't he?"

Sherlock's heart stopped. "Yes. No. You're lying."

He was still smiling.

"You're lying!" he said again, a little louder, as if that would make it true.

"How would you know what else I might have put in that pill?" Those cold black eyes held a certain cruel amusement in them that was making his skin crawl.

"I-no-" He started to pace furiously, then stopped. "No. You _want _me to think that-you want me to try and shoot you."

"Hardly. I intend to come out of this alive. You know what I really don't understand?"

"What?"

"Why do you _care_? He's just another person, isn't he? He doesn't _matter_-"

"Don't," he interrupted suddenly, feeling sick to his stomach. He didn't get it. John was different; he was intelligent, funny, he cared, he was _special_. No one understood. "Just…don't. People-people have died. No, wait, that isn't even important-people have _suffered_." He flashed back to Kathy's terrified pleading. The last thing she would ever feel was shame. She had to _beg_, and she died anyway. That felt…wrong.

"So? What's it going to be?"

In lieu of an answer, he picked the knife back up. It had very good balance. "Stabbing deaths," he said, "are a lot more common than death by gun homicide in the UK, unless I'm very much mistaken."

An ironic smile twisted Moriarty's face. "And you said I was being clichéd. How really _noble_ of you. A gentlemen's duel."

"No tricks."

He stood, held up his hands. "Nothing up my sleeves, promise."

The next knife came out of nowhere. It actually caught at his hair before it thudded into the wall. A trickle of blood wound its way down his cheek like a tear. He brushed it away, suppressing a shudder from the hungry look in Moriarty's eyes. Like a shark in open water.

"Except for that," admitted Moriarty, making his way around the desk.

"I didn't know you were this good with knives," he said, blocking the next one with the knife he was holding. _Clang._

"See? We're already getting to know each other."

"You said you didn't like getting your hands dirty."

"For you, I'll make an exception." _Clang._

They circled around the desk like vultures. Now Sherlock had his back to the window.

"Alright," said Moriarty, "That was the last one. Really."

"I am getting to know you," he replied, reaching behind him with one hand to unlatch the window, "and by now-"

Moriarty lunged forward and Sherlock caught his wrist, with one arm, the last knife hovering an inch from his neck. _Jugular_, he thought, remembering the term from one of John's textbooks. He filed the piece of information neatly away for later use. Their faces were inches apart. They were both breathing hard. He could see his eyes. He supposed he had never been really scared of anyone, but those eyes…He would have nightmares about those eyes. They were like twin black holes-magnetic, but look too long and you could never claw your way out. It was an electric moment. For the first time he realized how powerful a brilliant but truly unhinged mind could be when given the right tools.

"I know that you _always _have another knife," he finished, and turned to his left, dragging Moriarty with him and opening the window the rest of the way with one fluid motion. There was a single terrifying moment of vertigo when he thought he was going to fall as well-but then Moriarty had fallen, where there had been a man there was only a dark, empty, open window. Snow glittered on the hardwood floor in the dim yellow light from the lamp. It was breathtakingly cold. His breath, still coming in heaving, labored bursts, fogged the glass as he closed the window.

Then, to his supreme annoyance and before he could fully comprehend the implications of what he had just done, the phone on the desk rang.

He didn't know why he picked up. It was a stupid thing to do.

As he would learn shortly, it also saved his life.

"Mr. Holmes," said a quick, businesslike voice.

"Anthea? How-"

"It's not important. You have to get out of there now. There's a car at the main entrance. A black Rolls-Royce. Don't argue. _Run_."

She hung up. He put the phone down very, very, slowly, took the gun, and did exactly as she said.


	14. Baggage

**More soon.**

"Full points for timing, but minus several thousand for lack of subtlety, don't you think? I mean really, Mycroft, a _Rolls-Royce_?"

His brother was pacing the living room, swinging that ridiculous umbrella of his in a jerky sort of way that suggested the next person to speak was going to get smacked. Still, he couldn't help himself. Mycroft's flair for the dramatic was starting to encroach on his previously unrivaled territory.

There was a row of men and women in suits and sunglasses bustling about discreetly off to the side of the room (he was forcibly reminded of "movie night" with John a month ago-for some reason beyond his comprehension he chose _On Her Majesty's Secret Service_). They were all whispering urgently into walkie-talkies or headsets. Some had guns. A stocky brunette with a grim expression walked up to Mycroft.

"We're at twenty, sir."

"Contact the police."

"They've been informed. Bit hard to miss, sir."

"Quite. You may go."

She darted away. Her heels were slightly too high for her-and bright green. Certainly an unconventional color for a government employee. They looked fairly expensive Sherlock's mind was whirring on overdrive. _Red marks above the ankle at boot-height, quite slim but muscular build-ice skater-_

Mycroft smacked the umbrella into a side table. All present-except for the detective- visibly flinched. Apparently they had never seen their boss so harried. To be fair, neither had he.

"Sherlock, are you listening to me?"

"No," he said automatically.

"I said the ambulance didn't make it."

It was hard to describe the feeling. It was rather like being punched in the stomach, as though all the air had been sucked out of the room. "_What?_" he whispered.

Time stopped. It ceased to exist.

His brother's voice was coming from somewhere very far away. He couldn't quite make out the words; something about…seizing…flat-line...went into shock… incredibly lucky to be alive…

"Wait, sorry?" he interrupted.

"He's alive."

The room came hurtling back and his knees gave out. He disguised the sudden weakness as exasperation as he flopped back down on the chair.

"And why was it lucky he didn't make it to the hospital?"

"The hospital was bombed shortly after you very irresponsibly left the scene."

"So he knew," he muttered, more to himself than his brother. He was sitting up straight now, mind racing far ahead of his mouth. "Or rather he predicted that the only thing that could provoke me into coming after him and actually being successful was harming-so he planned-oh, my God," he whispered, in awe at the flawless execution. "That is _brilliant_."

"The death toll," said Mycroft icily, "has been doubling every hour. Four major hospitals were bombed simultaneously. The city is in gridlock."

He didn't care. What were a thousand nameless, faceless numbers if John was safe?

_A million is a statistic. _

"One question, though," he asked, ignoring the statement. It sounded flippant even to his ears, given the severity of the situation. "How did you find me? I mean, even with your remarkable talent for crucial oversight I doubt-"

"Here you go AGAIN!" shouted Mycroft, finally losing control. That surprised him. He had never heard Mycroft raise his voice before. Ever. He must really have been upset. "Always thinking in the short term! Is it any wonder you nearly got yourself killed _twice_ tonight?"

The government agents had melted into the woodwork, cowed by the sight of Mycroft Holmes in a towering fury. "I FOUND you because we figured it out! You underestimate me and the considerable resources at my disposal, _dear brother_! And you've underestimated Moriarty as well! Do you have ANY idea how much danger you are in right now?"

"Enlighten me, then," he snarled, standing.

"I plan to," he growled back, with equal, vindictive rage. "You weren't standing in the way of an _individual_ tonight. You were standing in the way of an _organization_. He's like a spider. He sits in the middle of this web of lies that spans the whole world, and he knows every little movement and every little change in the wind…and you're a fly, Sherlock. _The_ fly, if you will. You are tangling up his perfect little web. And it's about to close on you. People are organizing themselves as we speak-terrorist groups, trained assassins, the Mafia. Rumors are flying."

"Moran?"

"He is merely the tip of the proverbial iceberg. There will be people after you, Sherlock. And they won't be playing games. They won't be afraid to kill, coerce, torture-whatever they feel is necessary."

He nodded, slowly. He was starting to see now what would have to be done. They would have to unravel the web, bit by bit. Measures would have to be taken. Then he realized.

"No one knows where I am but you," he said abruptly.

"At the moment, no."

"So…" He looked up at Mycroft questioningly. They were both thinking the same thing. "What do you think?" he continued softly.

"You'll have to go underground."

"Yes, obviously. But, I mean…"

"I know."

Neither of them wanted to say it. That would only make it worse.

"I can't. I can't not say goodbye."

"Sherlock-"

"Yeah. No, just…being irrational," he muttered, trailing off. "I…sorry."

"No," replied Mycroft shrewdly. "No, you're being human."

He looked up, surprised. His brother smiled at him. It was genuine, something he often wasn't at the best of times.

"You can write a note," he said quietly. "Suicide doesn't seem too far-fetched."

Sherlock nodded, trying to recover from his momentary slip of composure. "Right."

"Paris is lovely this time of year."

He snorted. "Paris? Could you be any more conspicuous?"

"All right, fine. Istanbul."

Hmm. He would have to brush up on his Turkish. "Sounds doable."

"I'll give you ten minutes."

That would be plenty. For now, he didn't have to think too hard about it. The thinking would come later. He walked over to the kitchen, moved some test tubes, and got out a clean sheet of paper and a pen.

_Dear John…_

Later, on a plane, with a new identity, the man who had once been Sherlock Holmes wondered if he had said the right things. He wondered if he would ever get a chance to do it properly.

He wouldn't see John Watson again for another three years.

He didn't know this, of course, but he still wondered if by then (whenever _then_ turned out to be) it would be too late.

The city of Istanbul spread out below him like a pop-up book. It was a beautiful city, with over 13 million inhabitants.

He had never felt more alone.


	15. Loss

I blinked. The inside of an ambulance faded into view. Lestrade was sitting in the corner, one hand pressed to his mouth. He buried his face in his hands and sighed shakily. I had heard that sigh before, half a world away, at night, while explosions ripped through the air outside a flimsy tent and we were running out of oxycodone and hope just wasn't enough. I had sighed like that. So had the doctors I had worked with. It had become just as familiar a sound as the screaming, melting into the hundreds of inconsequential little details that the patients carried with them.

"Er," I said fuzzily, "Is everything okay?"

He looked up, standing hastily and bumping his head on the ceiling in the process.

"John-ow. Oh, thank God. Can you…are you…?"

"Fine," I grunted, raising myself to a sitting position. He rushed forward to help, while an EMT adjusted an intravenous bag.

"Or, uh…better. I didn't expect to see you here…actually," I continued, blinking several more times as the world started to come into sharper focus, "I didn't expect to see anyone again, ever. How…?"

"Mycroft, but that's not important now. No, be quiet, I don't need to hear about what happened. Later. I need to call…" He ran a hand through his steely hair. It was good to see the smile lines on his face being put to use. It hadn't been happening too often lately.

"Where's Sherlock?"

"I don't know, I'm calling him."

"He isn't…here?" I felt an odd sense of disappointment at the news.

"No, he said he had things to take care of."

"Why've we stopped?"

"The traffic is horrible. Power's just coming back on and everything's a mess, gridlock…I'm going to have hell to pay in the morning, but at least you're okay. We lost you for about a minute back there." He was gripping the side of the gurney awfully hard with his free hand, the other clutching a phone to his ear.

_He should probably sit down_, I thought. I could see Sherlock's reaction to that. _Are you _always _a_ _doctor?_

"Huh," he muttered. "He's not picking up. Hold on." He unlocked the door and leapt out, letting snow into the ambulance. The wind was deathly cold, and I was glad when he shut it. I couldn't seem to stop shivering.

It was twenty minutes before he came back. He was no longer smiling. His eyes were red-rimmed. There was something…changed about him. The EMT sensed it as well, being so used to these situations. I could see the reserved sympathy in her gentle brown eyes. Looking back, I'm surprised it took me that long to realize.

"There's something I have to tell you," he said quietly, and my stomach dropped, because I knew that line, too. I said it at least once a week. Probably Lestrade had had to just as often. He didn't really have to say the rest; about how they found the bathroom mirror destroyed, syringes all over the floor. That they had six times the lethal dose of cocaine in them, that his cell phone and a box of nicotine patches were on the table, along with a note. How they thought it had to be a forgery until they realized the handwriting matched. How, on top of all this, it was a good thing we never reached the hospital. That the death toll was now at forty nine. That the children's ward at Bart's had been the first to go. Later I learned that little Angela Weaver, the one with leukemia, was found curled up in a corner, miraculously still alive, and died a few minutes later of exposure. Three innocent bystanders were killed trying to help.

From that one sentence, I already knew.

Outside, it kept snowing.


	16. Epilogue

**Sherlock**

Well, by now, I'm sure you've all heard the news. And I wanted to set things straight.

Sherlock Holmes is dead.

God, that was hard to type.

Whatever else you have read in tabloids, it wasn't murder, even though that would provide some small comfort to me because there was no way I could have done anything if it had been. He killed himself.

Anyway, he left a note:

_Dear John,_

_ I know this is going to be hard on you, and probably Mrs. Hudson as well. I wish I had the words to tell all of you how much you meant to me. You're the writer, John, and maybe you know that sometimes there aren't any. Don't be too upset about this. I don't think I really belonged here anyway. I have already settled my bank accounts. Hopefully the extra money will help pay for the wall and the rent. You may keep my violin. Please don't go looking for a body. You won't find one. The police won't, either. Take care of yourself. Tell Sarah she's a very lucky woman._

_Yours truly,_

_ Sherlock Holmes_

There won't be a service, given the actual and slightly more important crisis that occurred Saturday. At about 4 AM , four hospitals were bombed simultaneously. No one has an idea who's responsible except for some members of the Met who were involved in the last case we had that had to do with a mad bomber. They are going to remain unnamed, as will the bomber. I don't know if they are alive or dead or what, but the fact remains that it could be dangerous to start tossing around names. Sixty-three people were killed in the hospital bombings. I knew some of them. They were all fantastic, hardworking people and deserve to be remembered as such. I'll miss them.

While we're on the subject, I thought I'd give a eulogy for Sherlock here, since we're not running an obituary in the paper or anything.

Sherlock Holmes was the most amazing person I have ever known. He was, as was often necessary for his job, a fantastic liar. He liked to call himself a high functioning sociopath. He was so good at lying that he not only convinced the rest of the world this was true, but he also managed to convince himself. I like to flatter myself and say that I knew better.

What no one seems to understand is that you don't do the right thing because you're a nice person, you do it because it's the right thing to do. To hell with the consequences.

He was not a nice person, but that's not important. The important thing is that he was _good_. It was a privilege to have known him.

It has been an absolutely crazy two weeks, so Mrs. Hudson and I would like the press to please stop calling us.

Information about the upcoming press conference can be found at the official website of the Metropolitan Police, not here.

Merry Christmas, all. Have a good one.

_320 COMMENTS_

**THANKS to all of you who have stuck through this-there will be a sequel! It will be quite long and possibly just as tear-jerking, if not more-but they'll be happy tears.  
And because I'm just a horrible person who likes to manipulate peoples' emotions, here you are. I dare you not to cry.**

**.com/watch?v=R_kZmSwTsNQ&feature=related**

**Seriously, though, thanks. You're all talented, mostly coherent people. And that's awesome and quite inspiring, to be honest. You know what else is awesome? Donating to Japan!**

**Here: .org/site/Donation2?=form1&df_id=5052&idb=0  
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